Disclaimer: I don't even know if you guys read these...but for what it's worth I don't own Sherlock.
5 Stages of Improbability
by: Evelynhunters
He stopped talking when he realised how lonely his voice sounds in the echoes of the empty, empty room. He usually talks to air or gestures something to the space next to him.
It hits him right in the middle of a sentence, right in the middle of a word, and he's left blinking in the aftermath of it without anything to say. There's no one left to listen, he thinks, and dumbly sits in a chair with the lack of anything better to do. He was talking about something, something with grand gestures and animated voices, he was sure, and then he stops. He realises that no ones there listening.
He remains still, ears stretching for a noise that isn't the pipes or the flat breaking down. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, and he doesn't know why he thought there would be any because Sherlock's dead but he keeps listening as if he'll hear something that resembles the life that was there before if he stands still enough.
He's got his feet flat against the floor and his hands under his chin, not making a single noise and remains that way until Mrs. Hudson opens the door and breaks him out of his focus.
You're so stupid, John Watson, because what's the use of a doctorate if you can't save anyone? What's the use of a doctorate when you can't save your best friend and every one who was on the field? What's the point of you if you can't even help anyone?
He's tossing and turning in his bed, unable to sleep -which, with all things considered makes sense but recently it's even more out of hand. It's not really the prospect of nightmares (memories) that keeps him from falling asleep but rather the silence, emptiness, the hollowness of everything. The hollow of a building for two and the hollow excuse of a man.
He's so tired. He wants to sleep. He wants that mindless black hole rest where when all you remember when you wake up is how you fell asleep. John Watson doesn't want the nightmares (memories). But instead all he has is a silent flat, a silent room, and a dead body of a man who used to not be silent until that was all he is.
It's like a crushing weight on his chest, his lungs, maybe somewhere to the left (but he won't admit that it's his heart) and the blank white ceiling makes him feel sad but the lack of sound from anything else in the flat makes him want to cry.
He downloads Mozart's Concerto for Violins on his iPod and he turns it up as loud as he can without disturbing Mrs. Hudson. He goes to sleep with the heart breaking sound of trills and falls and the feel of something filling up the empty space.
He gets an apple from the basket for breakfast, tosses it between his hands, sets it down next to his laptop with the intention of eating it and then puts it back in the basket later when he realises he's totally forgotten about it.
It's not like he's actively starving himself, he just...doesn't have the appetite. Right.
He's got other things on his mind than eating, he justifies, even though he can't really remember what he does for most of the day. He usually goes on his laptop -though not the blog, he's...he can't continue the blog- and he'll read about cases he found in the telly or ones he knew would be interesting to Sherlock if he were still alive.
But he's not. So John Watson stops looking cases up.
He looks at the drawer handle a lot, too. Sometimes he'll put his hand on the handle, almost pulling it but stopping even the slightest of tugs. Sometimes he'll just really look at the handle and wonder what Sherlock would see if he were still alive.
Would he see the worn out paint of that handle compared to the relatively new paint on all the others? Would he be able to deduce how many times John thought about opening the drawer? Would he know, just by a glance, what was in the drawer that seems so significant?
But he's not. So John Watson stops wondering what Sherlock Holmes would have thought.
On the days where it gets bad, really bad, and he opens the drawer, he'll move his eyes along the reflection of light the black plastic gives and all the temptation wrapped in one little click and he'll think about it, for a minute that if he fires the gun the air would be filled with something, some noise. That it wouldn't be so dreadfully silent like it never was. That it wouldn't be so...empty like it is now.
He takes one more look at the gun, that temptation wrapped in one little click and he closes the drawer.
Sometimes the Concerto can get him to sleep in a minute. Other times he's not so lucky, and he'll go on YouTube to search for gunshot noises because Dr. Watson, you're not haunted by the war. You miss it.
AN/ Hello. Please don't kill me.
Yeah I am an awful person.
As it turns out I am not someone who can do multi chapter fics that need regular updating. Even when there's only five chapters.
Sorry. This is short too, so double sorry.
Well, I wrote this and, feeling extremely guilty, did not go back and check any of it so if there are any errors and spelling or grammar (or you want to tell me I'm a butt head for not updating sooner) write me some comments.
:/ forgive me!